


The Ghost of Winterfell

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (okay that's one's still a 'maybe'), Cuddling, Dreams, Kissing, M/M, Reunion Sex, Reunions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-10-24 10:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10739604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: If ‘should haves’ and ‘would haves’ had the power to change anything, Jon would not be here. He would not be the Bastard Lord of Winterfell, weeping over a family he had never truly been part of, and a lost chance for something that could never be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working hard on this for weeks, and I think it definitely shows. it's way better quality than my usual works (And a little more flowery, ngl)

With a heavy heart and a sick feeling coiling tight in his chest, Jon hefted the saddle he carried onto his horse, saddling her without even thinking about it. He had the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand thousand times before, and the vacant eyes of someone who was unable to be in the present moment, too lost in his own mind. Sam was a silent shadow in the corner, watching Jon with sad eyes. He started to speak and stopped himself half a dozen times before Jon finally looked to his friend. He could plainly see that Sam wanted to speak, something was weighing heavy on his mind, and normally Jon would have asked what it was. He found himself unable to, instead looking back at his horse, making sure he had the supplies he would need for his journey. He couldn’t pretend to care, as much as he wished he could, too thickly encased in the icy numbness of shock and denial and grief.

Sam fidgeted for what felt like ages, the silence between them awkward and oppressive, hanging between them heavier than a sword hanging from the sealing by only a single thread. Finally, Sam could take it no longer.

“We’ll be seeing each other again, won’t we?” Sadness like spiders wslk was laced through his voice. It was a pointless question. He knew the answer already, he had read the letter. He had been the one to bring it to Jon, after all. But his gentle words, just a touch of hope lining the silk sorrow like drops of dew, was enough to break through the ice surrounding Jon.

Jon laughed. A cracked, broken thing, sounding like shattering glass or ice sickles splintering in the summer warmth. Perhaps the madness that tainted his Targaryean blood was finally creeping up on him; it certainly felt like it. Perhaps he would hold true to the other half of his bloodline after all.

“No, Sam, we probably won’t,” he said, and if there were tears staining his crooked smile, neither of them mentioned it.

 _Your eldest brother is dead,_ the letter had dispassionately stated, black-brown ink scrawled over the parchment like dried blood. _Along with Lady Catelyn Stark, Bran, and Rickon. Arya hasn’t been seen since your father’s execution, and Sansa hasn’t been seen since Joffrey’s murder. There’s no one left, Snow, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Better a bastard of the North with Stark blood in his veins than a bastard from the South ._ He had no idea who’d sent the letter, it came unsigned. According to Sam, the messenger--a boy by the name of Pod--didn’t know who had sent the letter either. Jon had seen him leave, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before Pod had ridden from the Wall, and Jon had seen a light of recognition in them. He may have played a bumbling fool, but he knew more than he was letting on; Jon was sure of it. It didn’t really matter who had sent the letter, though.

Accompanying it was a royal pardon releasing him from his sacred Night’s Watch vows. It was signed by the late Robert Boratheon himself, along with a separate letter folded inside ordering him to put aside his ‘wretched nobility’ and ‘get his ass to Winterfell’ before the Lannister’s sent someone else. The king had been laid to rest ages ago, and even still, he was finding ways to impress his will upon the living, few though they were.

The letter from the unknown sender made note of that. Robert had, in a fit of drunken paranoia that had been more and more common as he neared the end of his life, scrawled out the document in the event that everything went to the lowest of the seven hells. For all that he had been a pitiful excuse for a king, Robert had been granted an astounding amount of insight in that moment, however brief it may have been. Jon respected his foresight, as much as he hated the man for it. He wished it was within his power to refuse the order, say no and stay at the Wall, the place he’d dreamed of being for as long as he could remember. But he couldn’t. His pardon came with the order that he take his place as Lord of Winterfell, one that was not in his power to refuse.

“Oh… Well, maybe I could visit ya,” Sam said. Jon could almost appreciate his optimism, if he couldn’t see the desperation hiding behind it. Sam didn’t want him to leave as much as Jon wished he could stay. And why wouldn’t he feel that way? Where would he be had Jon not stood up for him? Likely at the bottom of the wall, serving as a feast for the Thins for how much his fellow brother’s of the Night’s Watch had hated him. But it was more than that. He didn’t want Jon to stay for the protection he got out of it, he wanted Jon to stay for the companionship they shared. Jon was the first true friend he’d ever had, and he didn’t want to lose him now. That sick feeling in Jon’s chest coiled tighter, squeezing around his heart and lungs.

“You aren’t allowed to leave the Wall, remember? You’d be branded a deserter, a traitor, and it’d likely be _me_ swinging the blade that took your head from your shoulders.” _Please don’t make me do that, Sam. I can’t lose anyone else._ The unspoken words hung between them, oppressive, and there was the sword held only by a string once more, creaking in the silence and ready to snap. Neither could tell which one of them it was hanging over, ready to fall at a moment's notice, with just one wrong word, forcing them to move carefully through the stilted conversation.

When Sam next spoke, it was hesitant, devoid of all traces of his dew-drop optimism. He didn’t believe his own words, voicing them only for Jon’s benefit.

“Your uncle was allowed to go to Winterfell, sometimes. Maybe eventually I will, too. Or if I get sent somewhere for recruits, I could stop for a night or two.”

“I--” Jon couldn’t bring himself to refute him, to say how unlikely it was that such a situation would arise. The Wall would sooner melt. “Yes. I would like that, Sam,” he said instead, his voice strained as the coil in his chest rose to wrap around his throat, until he felt as if he could hardly breathe.

He was just putting off the inevitable, now, his horse saddled and supplies packed. It was time for him to leave, to return to the home he never thought to see again. He didn’t even know if it would be the home he’d remembered.

Jon finally looked up from the saddle, turning to see Sam with his eyes downcast, looking at his feet. With two steps, Jon was in front of him, embracing his friend. Sam held him close with concealed strength, as if the force of his hug would be enough to keep Jon there. Jon wished it was as simple as that, because then he would surely never leave.

“I can only imagine the state of things, after everything that has happened since I left, But--If I can, I’ll try to come back here and see you whenever possible.” It wasn’t too likely to happen soon, if ever, but he would do his best to try. He owed Sam that much, for all they’d been through together.

“Gods be with you, Sam,” he said, the spider silk sorrow now in his voice as he pulled away. He clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder with a weak--but no less genuine for it--smile.

“And with you, Jon,” Sam said, dew drops collecting at his eyelashes like jewels.

Jon climbed onto his horse and rode for Winterfell without so much as a look back; his watch has ended.

***

Jon had stopped in an inn for a single night, and he’d listened in on tales of what had become of Winterfell. It was a cautionary tale to any who chose to oppose the Lannisters, many were saying. People had been flayed and murdered, hung around the keep as if they were some form of grotesque decoration.

Hearing these stories had not prepared Jon for the sight of his childhood home. It was true that the Bolton’s had been run out and run down, but the dead had not yet been properly cared for. There were still rubble and corpses littering the ground, Northmen and Ironborn alike. Those that survived milled about with hopelessness, eyes hollow and glazed over, as if they too were corpses, animated only by their grief and desire to return to a home that was no longer theirs. Jon had confronted the risen dead, the dreaded wights, and he would much rather face them now than these pitiful creatures surrounding him .

Jon didn’t know how to restore what these people had lost, for they had lost more than a home. He didn’t know how to inspire hope in their hearts for better days to come. Dread filled him as he rode through the gates, Ghost at his side, dutiful as ever, and all eyes became trained on him. He expected distaste, scorn, but instead was met with emptiness. What this how he had looked, after reading that letter?

Then, as he was recognized, emptiness was met with desperate hope. Hope that he could lead them, show them the path that would lead them back to their former lives. They cared not that his name was Snow, only that his blood was Stark blood. A Stark must always remain in Winterfell, if there is to be hope. He _was_ a Stark, even if not in name, but that was enough. It _had_ to be enough.

Jon left his horse outside the stable with a loving pat to her neck. He unsaddled her, brushed her down, and left her to her well-earned rest,

He made his way down to the crypts, knowing he was a coward for it, but he couldn’t face his people just yet. He would make his peace with the dead, first, and hope that when he emerged, he would have their wisdom to guide him.

Jon kept his composure as he slowly walked through the dark tunnel, nothing but a single candle to light his way. As he walked, saying silent prayers to the dead, he touched his candle to the wicks of those that had gone long without being lit. Soon, a trail of little lights like stars were scattered behind him. He even offered a prayer to Lady Catelyn, for all they didn’t care for each other, as she had once done for him the night death had tried it’s best to claim him. But when he got to Robb,he found he couldn’t do it. The prayers that had come so easily to his lips just moments before were lost in his throat, strangled by the coil that found itself there once more.  His eyes stung, pricked with tears that he tried his damnedest to hold back, fighting a losing battle against what his body wanted from him and what he wasn’t willing to give just yet.

He found himself slumped against the wall of the tomb, one arm braced across it being the only thing keeping him upright.

“ _Robb_ ,” he whispered, as if that name were the prayer he was trying to speak. “You stubborn fool.” The words were choked, bitten off, and far from what he wanted to say. But the words he wished to speak would not come, were stuck in his throat, only these finding their way past his lips.

“I should never have left you. I should have stayed when you asked, I should have--” _protected you_. Robb had always possessed  a noble heart; he would have made a fine king. He would have been loved, and his people would have prospered, had the whole of Westeros not been trying to tear itself apart from the inside out, riddled with parasites.

In a land of treachery, where allies could be bought and sold, turned against each other for petty trinkets or titles, Robb hadn’t stood a chance. He held the same fault as their father. Or uncle, rather, but he had been a father and more to Jon growing up. Eddard Stark had been killed by his honor, his beloved son soon to follow. But Jon--Jon could have protected him. Would have, if he’d had the chance. He would have sooner given his own life than betray a Stark. _Than betray Robb_ , a quiet, secret part of his mind whispered.

True he would have killed or died for any of the Stark children, whom he had loved dearly. He was a bastard, and their lives were worth far more than his. But Robb. For Robb he would have willingly given anything that had been asked of him, his life and more.

But if ‘should haves’ and ‘would haves’ had the power to change anything, Jon would not be here. He would not be the Bastard Lord of Winterfell, weeping over a family he had never truly been part of, and a lost chance for something that could never be.

“I hope you’re waiting for me,” he whispered, giving form to words he would have never thought to speak aloud, and yet here he was, speaking secrets like they were the flutter of a butterfly’s wings on his lips. What was there to lose now, he had already lost everything that has ever been dear to him.

Outside, as if to remind him that this wasn’t true, that he was not yet alone, Ghost howled. It was a harrowing sound, like the screaming of the winds through the cracks in Winterfell during sleepless nights, as if the wolf felt the pain of loss as acutely as Jon did. Perhaps he did, having lost his family just as Jon had. Now it was just the two of them, two packless wolves.

“I will make things right in Winterfell,” he promised, eyelashes wet and glistening as he placed his hand over Robb’s tomb. “I will make as much right as I can, and I will protect it until my dying breath. Until then, wait for me.”

He forced himself away from the tomb, unable to breathe even as he grieved the loss of his family, the loss of Robb most of all. A breeze ran through the crypt, like a lover’s caress on his cheek, and Robb felt the tears try on his cheeks. Knowing he was as composed as he would be able to get, his expression one of ice and steel, Jon left the crypts, candles blazing in his wake. He gathered the people milling about within the walls of Winterfell, those who had lost everything and more, just as he had, and told them to get word out to the rest of those in the North whom still lived. There was a Stark once more to lord over Winterfell.

***

More and more northerners were arriving by the day, seeking the protection Winterfell had to offer. Even with the wars truly over this time, still they feared. With their help, Jon began the restoration of Winterfell. The castle was strong, built of ancient stone that stood proud amongst the Snow, resilient. The corpses of those whose lives were stolen by the Bolton's and Ironborn were taken and tended to, Jon helping to build many of the pyres. It seemed the fires were lit for near a month.

The storeroom remained, still stocked with preserved foods meant to last over the winter when farming was scarce, and before long, Winterfell was once more filled with people, fires burning in every room. And as each day passed, the spark of hope he saw in his people’s eyes grew brighter and brighter.

It took just short of three months before Winterfell was finally restored, cleared of rubble and the stench of death, along with any remnants of the Bolton’s and their cruelty. The war was nothing more than a memory. There was no grand feast to celebrate, for the real work had only just begun. Instead, the people of the north gathered together, nobles and lowborn alike, to finally mourn those lost in the war. Properly. Candles were lit, prayers were said, songs were sung, memories of better times were reminisced. More than a few tears were shed. Then, they all looked to him, and he knew he could no longer remain a silent for in the background.

“Men and women of the north,’ he began, feeling like an imposter as he addressed them. He was never meant to lead the North, he had been destined to command the Watch, before his life had been taken out of his control. “Some of you, I have known all my life. Many of you have surely never heard of me until my return here. But if I know nothing else about all of you, the people of the North, I know that we will recover. We always do. The North has been dealt a devastating blow, but the North shall endure.”

It wasn’t much of a speech, but then Stark men weren’t known for their flowery words and fanciful tales of inspiration. They were short and to the point, blunt like the tip of an icicle. But despite that, Jon could see that it was all that needed to be said.


	2. Chapter 2

It was late, the sun having descended over the horizon long ago, and gradually the great hall was emptying, until only Jon and Ghost remained. Jon stood, then, and began towards his chambers—his old chambers, the thought of taking Ned and Catelyn’s making him physically ill—but it was not his door that he found himself in front of. Instead it was down the hall from his, deeper in the keep; Robb’s. He felt like a young boy again, sneaking in to sleep with his half-brother—cousin, he supposed—to ward off the cold. His own room was always so cold, a draft that he could never find the source of freezing him in the night no matter how big the fire, and he never had enough furs. Robb had always welcomed him, though, curling up with Jon until his shivering ceased and his teeth stopped chattering.

Thinking of simpler times, when war was nothing more than the old stories Eddard Stark would tell, Jon pushed open the door. He didn’t even think as he went to light a fire, having done it so many times in this very room adding wood until it was blazing and warming the room, before going to lay down in the bed. He’d always felt more at home here than he ever had anywhere else. Robb had been his home, the only one that was unconditionally welcoming when he was younger.  Ned had taken him in because honor demanded it. Catelyn had put up with him because Ned ordered it. But Robb had just seen him as a brother, a friend. An unwanted, unloved boy he had gone out of his way to make feel wanted and loved. Jon felt tears prick his eyes again as memories were drawn to the forefront of his mind, bittersweet, and buried his face in one of the pillows. Deliriously, he thought that it still smelled like Robb. Perhaps that was nothing more than wishful thinking; it had been years since he’d slept here. 

Getting up once more when the room was finally warm, Jon stripped out of his cloak and leathers to change into nightclothes. He could have easily walked down the halls to get his own, but it was so much easier to take Robb’s. Not as if he would be needing them anymore. The shirt was a little on the big side, Robb having been broader than Jon ever was, even now, broadened by his time fighting at the Wall.  Crawling under the furs of the bed, Jon closed his eyes and pretended he was just a boy again. He entertained the idea that if he prayed hard enough to the old gods, whom he’d always been faithful to, they would return Robb to him, whole and alive. If the walkers were real, why couldn’t the Old Gods be real too? But even if they were real, why would they bother listening to the desperate pleading of a bastard lord. Jon fell asleep to thoughts of the past, but it was some strange manifestation of the present that filled his dreams.

***

“What are you doing in my bed, Jon?” Robb asked, a gentle, crooked smile quirking his lips. Jon opened his eyes to stare disbelievingly at the man who lay across from him, mouth opening and closing. He hadn’t words, now that Robb was with him again, arms wrapped around his waist like when they used to lay together as children.

“Your bed was always warmer,” he finally said, that being the only thing coming to mind. That thought was followed by dozens of others that he found himself unable to say just yet.

“Probably because I was in it. You always did sap my warmth like a little leech.” Jon looked as if he had been struck, the words hurting for some reason even though some part of him knew this was only a manifestation of his own making.

“I’m sorry.”

“Nonsense, there’s nothing to be sorry about. I enjoyed having you share my bed.” Robb squeezed his arms around Jon’s middle, pulling him closer until they were pressed against one another, their legs tangled together. “You were always so nice to hold. Not as soft as you used to be, now, but still nice.”

Jon let himself melt shamefully into Robb’s embrace, burying his face in his chest. He could feel Robb’s smile when he pressed a kiss to the top of his head, stroking his soft curls. “There, there, you’re alright.”

“No I’m not,” Jon said, his voice full of anguish. He clutched at the back of Robb’s shirt desperately, as if afraid that if he let go, the dream would slip through his fingers.

“Talk to me, Snow. Tell me what’s wrong so that I can fix it.” Always the fixer, always the hero, coming to Jon’s rescue. If only he could come to Jon’s rescue now, be there to hold him when Jon woke as he was now in his dreams. He couldn’t decide, yet, if he found this dream to be a comfort or a cruelty, his mind showing him what he could no longer have.

“What’s wrong is that you’re dead.”

“Everyone dies eventually.”

“You died too soon.” Robb hummed softly, neither in agreement or disagreement. Perhaps he did die exactly when he was meant to, for fate to take its proper course, but it was too soon for Jon. If Jon had had his way, Robb would have never died, leaving him alone in his cold, bleak world. 

“There is something else, though. I can feel it. Something you’re hiding from me; since when do we hide things from each other?” Robb asked gently, carding his fingers through Jon’s hair, the unruly curls parting for his fingers easier than they ever did for any brush. 

“I’m not ready to be the Lord of Winterfell. I don’t know how to do this.”

“That isn’t it, either. There’s something you want to tell me, Jon, something you didn’t get to before.” He tugged gently at Jon’s hair, before putting his hand under his chin until he managed to get Jon to look up at him, pretty brown eyes red-rimmed and shining with tears. “Won’t you tell me? Please?”

“I—I don’t know how.” Jon averted his eyes, unable to meet Robb’s gentle gaze. But Robb wouldn’t allow it, coaxing Jon’s attention back to him as he leaned down.

“Yes, you do,” he murmured, lips brushing against the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Tell me, Snow.”

“I miss you,” he whispered back, turning his head just a bit, shamefully chasing the feeling of Robb’s lips so close to his mouth; he would much rather feel them against his own. “More than anyone else, I miss you the most.” He was ashamed to admit it, but he couldn’t deny it. He loved Robb more than he had loved any of the other Starks, would give anything, even his own life, just to have Robb back. 

Smiling more, Robb graced Jon with a barely there kiss, his lips like the flutter of a butterfly’s wings on Jon’s. “I love you, too,” he said, so quietly that Jon wondered if he had really heard it, and then captured Jon’s lips in a gentle kiss. It was more than Jon had ever dared hope for, or even dream of, ever since he’d begun to look at Robb as something more than simply a friend or brother. 

Jon kissed back, lifting his hands to rest reverently on Robb’s cheeks, barely touching him. It was as if he did, the illusion would disappear like mist, leaving him cold and alone in a bed that wasn’t his, with memories that hurt more than loss. But Robb was solid against him. Warm, inviting,  _ real _ . He felt more real in this moment that he ever had, his mouth sliding slickly against Jon’s as the kiss deepened. He tasted as Jon had always imagines; like wine and the sugared rose petals he’d always favored. 

Jon had no way to guess how much time had passed, the moon never setting, the sun never rising. He knew that he would give anything to stay in this dream, with Robb’s mouth and hands on him like he’d dreamt of for so many years. Even if this was just a dream as well, he wished he would never leave it. Wished that he would succumb to a coma, left in his subconscious with Robb until his mortal body failed him, sending him to to afterlife where he might find Robb once more.

Nevertheless, he found himself waking to aching lips and burning lungs, as if he’d been kissing for hours. The room was cold, the fire having burnt out long ago. He felt a freezing wind, and when he looked to the wide open window he saw flakes of snow blowing through to stick on the floor; it must have blown out the fire. He stood, shivering, and padded across the cold stone floor to close and lock the window, before going to relight the fire. Just as the flame was beginning to warm the room once more, the window was again blow open, this time unlatching itself. 

Scowling, Jon went to close the window again, but only made it two steps before his attention was drawn elsewhere. There, a yard or two from the fire, was a person-sized piece of fogged ep, polished metal to serve as a mirror. Jon watched as letters were slowly scrawled across it, the sound of soft squeaks as if from a person’s finger dragging through condensation being the only sound in the room. Water dripped down the mirror from the three letters that had been drawn: 

J O N 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who back, back, back, back again, gain gain.

John stared at the mirror. Condensation slowly pooled and dripped from his name, distorting the letters. He rose from the bed, wary, and took hold of his sword that was lying in wait only an arm's length away, leaned against the wall. The war may be well and truly over, the nation left to nurse its wounds and heal, but years of conflict have taught Jon to never be caught unarmed, even in times when he should supposedly be safe.

Surely the mirror was not a taunt from some would-be assassin, but he could think of nothing else.

Hastily, Jon crossed the room and jerked open the door, venturing out into the hall in search of the one who left his name on the mirror. But it was yet late into the night, and there was no one else to see Jon brandishing his sword to imagined attackers, with nothing but ill-fitting nightclothes for armor. Feeling foolish standing there, Jon returned to the room, closing the door heavily behind himself. He made sure to lock it, checking that it was still functional. The door didn't give at all when he pulled at it. That measure of security did little to ease his mind.

Jon glanced back at the mirror, but his name was gone. Possibly, it had never been there at all, nothing but old ghosts playing tricks on his mind.

He tossed longclaw – that sword of which he was undeserving, like so many things in his life – onto the table. A harsh gust of biting wind reminded accompanied by a flurry of snowflakes from the stork outside reminded him that the window was still open, casting a grave-like chill over the room. He closed the window, latching it more firmly this time, then went to relight the fire. The flint, having been carelessly tossed aside hours before, was now resting beside a mangled piece of wood resting on the mantle above the fireplace. It was only when Jon lit the fire, and filled the room with soft light, that he was able to more clearly discern the object.

It was a wolf, the work shoddy and amateur. Hardly worthy of a lord. And yet, Robb had kept it here, the aging on the wood speaking to many years of possession. If Jon didn't know better, he would think it Robb's own making, a failed attempt at craftsmanship. But then, he did not better. He knew the pitiful carving to have been a name-day gift to Robb, having himself been the one to gift it.

The sight of the statuette brought painful memories to mind, the thought of which were almost enough to bring Jon to his knees. He had believed, after the gravity of his great many losses, that he could suffer no more. The wolf before him stood as a mocking reminder that he was wrong.

Jon could remember when he had first thought to carve the wolf, a pale imitation of his noble family's crest. The creature on Robb's mantle was not so fearsome as a rabbit, let alone a direwolf of the North. He was inexperienced, watching the blacksmith's apprentice one afternoon as he whittled away at a piece of wood, his gleaming knife coming perilously close to the base of his thumb with each pass. Slowly, the wood was peeled away to reveal a flower, more delicate than anything Jon thought could be created with steel and wood. As a boy of thirteen year, he watched the apprentice polish the flower with leather oil until it gleamed, and then present it to the baker's daughter, a girl whom was beautifully plain in feature but sweet as sugar in spirit. Jon thought the gesture so romantic, he ought to give it a try as well. Perhaps he would even be gifted a kiss in return, like the apprentice.

The next day, John ventured into the godswood under the guise of prayer – an excursion not even the lady Catelyn would deny him. In truth, his motives were less than godly. With a fine knife hidden in his pocket, Jon scoured the ground for an adequate piece of wood to work from, finally coming across a fallen limb from the heartwood tree. The base had been riddled with parasites, slowly eating away at its connection to the gods until it fell away from the tree. With mottled white bark like the snowy planes of the lands Robb would one day rule, and enough heft that it should hold under its own weight, young Jon deemed it perfect. He carefully broke off a sizeable piece of the limb – double the size of his clumsy, childish hands – and settled at the base of the heartwood to work. The gods were able to watch over his shoulder as he scraped away the flesh of its fallen limb, too dead to bleed. It was cold and dry, a long-forgotten corpse, kept only just malleable enough by the snow that had buried it.

Where the blacksmith's apprentice had been graceful, his movements deft and practiced, Jon was clumsy. His hands were not used to such delicate work. He did not know how much or how little pressure to apply, nor at what angle to carve, the blade of his knife glanced over the wood and sliced deeply into his palm, enough that his blood flowed over the white wood, staining it. The first blood spilt for the gods in ages.

Jon returned to Winterfell after that, knife and gouged wood forgotten at the base of the heartwood as he went in search of maester Luwin. Little red drops followed him like breadcrumbs from a story all the way back to the keep.

Determined, Jon had been unwilling to give up, and the next morning found him in the godswood once more, hunting through a light layer of freshly fallen snow to find his knife and wood. Yet again under the guise of prayer, Jon set about another attempt. He was slower in his movements this time, taking care to get it right with all the focus of a young boy with someone to impress, even if he did not yet understand quite the depth of that desire. He flayed thin slices of the wood until there was a steadily growing pile of wood shavings on his lap.

It took many days for Jon to complete that little statue. Many days hiding away from Catelyn, claiming to spend that time in prayer when really, his thoughts were being seeded with budding sin. All of that was worth it when his efforts were paid off with the form of a wolf, barely distinguishable from a lump of snow-covered rock, but delighting him all the same. He presented it to Robb on his fourteenth name day, having finished just in time for the occasion.

Robb accepted the gift with all the magnanimity befitting a future lord, while young Sansa ridiculed his work, encouraged by her Lady mother. John knew his half-sister was only echoing the opinions of Catelyn. The woman was displeased he had lied to her so many times, and in this, Lord Stark agreed with her. He told Jon it was unbefitting of a son of his – bastard though he may be – to hide himself away from his duties in pursuit of pointless crafts. Hearing his father chastise him, young Jon thought it kinder that the man should strike him.

Jon could remember the look of consternation in Robb's eyes as he briefly met his brother's gaze, before retreating, feeling too laid bare to be seen. Robb had not followed, having more important things to attend to than the wounded feelings of his bastard brother. It was for the best. Jon would only have pushed Robb away had he pursued.

After all these years – and yet, it wasn't really so many – Jon never thought to see the statue again. He'd hardly given thought to it, putting it out of his mind entirely after the humiliation he'd received upon its creation. In all the times Jon had visited Robb in his chambers, he'd never seen it. (Indeed, he had not even laid on it when he lit the fires hours ago, or any of the other times he had lain in this room over the last three months.) Robb must have kept it hidden until his departure to the Wall, when there would be no chance of Jon ever laying his eyes upon it again.

Jon allowed himself, for the briefest of moments, the fantasy that Robb had brought it out after he left as a reminder. Perhaps Robb had missed him just as much as he had missed his brother, often finding himself thinking about the man during those long, cold nights on the Wall, when he was afforded no other comforts but those he could find in his thoughts.

Pulling away from his reverie of bittersweet memories, Jon sat the little wolf back down on the mantle and returned to bed. It was colder there than by the fire, but he didn't mind. Nothing could compare to the aching cold of the Wall, where he had spent several years. And besides, in Robb's bed, his memories warmed him now more than they ever had before.

***

"You left me," Robb said, lying in his bed beside Jon the way he had been before he woke.

"I didn't mean to," Jon offered, turning his head to face Robb. He wasn't surprised to find his brother there again, almost expected it. Hoped for it. "Are you real?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Do I feel real?" Robb replied, a familiar spark of challenge in his blue eyes.  Jon reached out to touch Robb's face, cold fingertips light over the curve of his jaw. He felt just as real as he had before. Jon only wished he could explain how.

"Yes." Robb placed his hand over Jon's, holding it to his face. He closed his eyes on a sigh, as though he was savoring the touch.

"Then I suppose I must be."

"But you can't be. Not after—what happened."

"Do you want me to be real?"

"Desperately." Here, in this secret land of dreams, where no one could hear his thoughts, Jon was able to freely put voice to the thought.

"Then I am real enough." Robb opened his eyes, smiling as his turned his face against Jon's palm, soft lips catching on callused hands. "What happened to you, little brother? Your hands used to be so soft," he murmured, lips like petals against Jon's rough skin.

When Jon didn't answer, simply staring as Robb pressed fleeting kisses to his hand, Robb looked at him with a grin.

"What's the matter, Snow? Nothing to say to me?"

"I don't know what to say." There was too much, and he feared all of it.

"Don't deprive me of your voice, it's been so long since I've heard it."

"I don't know what to say," Jon repeated, fingers curling into a loose fist against Robb's jaw and cheek. Robb sighed, releasing him.

"The years have not been kind to you. I never thought I would see the day when you lost your voice." He sounded so despairingly disappointed, but his words struck something unpleasant and ugly in Jon.

"What do you want from me, shadow?" he asked, his tone unkind. He pulled away from Robb entirely, sitting up. His brother did the same, looking at Jon warily. Something shuttered behind his eyes, replacing the playfulness that had been there only moments before. "Have I not suffered enough without my own mind coming to torment me?"

"I am not here to torment you."

"Then why are you here, if not to remind me if what I have lost? You claim to be real, but you are _not._ You are a ghost brought forth by my imagination and grief, nothing more."

"Is that what you believe?"

"It's what I know to be true. The dead don't commune in dreams."

"Why then does it sound like you're only trying to convince yourself?" For that, Jon had no answer. "You asked me to wait for you, and so I have. Why now do you fight me for coming to you?"

"Because you are not real!" _You are not real_ enough, Jon thought.

"Why does it matter?" Robb replied, his own voice rising. "Are you so stubborn that you won't let yourself have this, even here, where it doesn't matter?"

"I don't want you here." He doesn't deserve to have Robb there, to take comfort in his false presence, to disgrace his memory with his forbidden desires.

Robb shook his head at Jon, bemused that Jon would send him away now, after having welcomed him not so long ago.

"Fine, if that is what you truly wish." Between one heartbeat and the next, Robb was gone, an apparition.

Jon laid back, hoping to fall asleep inside this dream, and told himself the bed was not colder for lack of Robb's presence.

When he woke in the morning, Jon returned to his own chambers for the first time since the morning he left Winterfell for the Wall, hoping to escape the specter of his dead brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first game of thrones fic I ever wrote, seems fitting that this would be the one I come back to for the first time in almost a year. Writing wise, this one is still probably my favorite. Despite my complete and utter mangling of canon events, I think this was the closes to keeping Jon and Robb in character. Because keeping them ic is a big peeve of mine, and a large part of the reason I stopped writing (but mostly disconnecting from all things GoT to avoid s7 spoilers, which I still haven't seen!!) I'm still really proud of this fic. 
> 
> A big thank you to KenrakenOkwaho, whose comments from a few months ago actually really inspired me to start writing today. I was going through, trying to find a fic to start with to get back into writing, and theirs were just really great. <3
> 
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> 
> Now that's out of the way, hi guys! I hesitate to say I'm "back", because that implies regular updates. I'm about to start back in class, and in about 2-3 months I'll be working (about to get my real estate license y'all!!), but I am going to be way more active. I'd love to hear what you guys think on this fic, and feel free to check out my others. Leave some comments telling me what you did/didn't like about them, that'll help me decide which I want to work on next! 
> 
>  
> 
> Not to get sappy, but Imissed all of you guys. This is deffinately my favorite fandom to write for <3 I hope not too many of you gave up hope that I would be back!

**Author's Note:**

> The context is a bit funky for this, but that's mostly because it's the very first Jon/Robb fic I ever started working on a few weeks ago, and I hadn't gotten the events all sorted yet. So basically, the Battle of the Bastards didn't really happen, just the part with Baelish coming ad kicking the Bolton's ass. Sansa never married Ramsay, and p much everyone is dead. Also everything happened with the Starks within a v short time, rather than over months/years.  
> So sorry for mangling the events that were supposed to take place ;^; but they shouldn't be referenced much/at all since the story takes place in the present not the past, so hopefully it won't be to horrible or confusing.


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